This incredible view would have to suffice, however. The odds of ever seeing Miss Grace Winter naked, or in his bed, were indeed quite slim. He could admit these things to himself, if to no one else.
Thank Christ his valet, Carruthers, was nowhere to be found. The saucy chit would have caused the scandal of the age. What the devil was she doing in his chamber, anyway? And, more to the point, what was she doing beneath his bed?
Suddenly aware of the fact that he was lingering stupidly in the hall, where anyone could pass by and witness Miss Grace Winter’s arse poking out from beneath his bed, he stepped over the threshold. After drawing the door closed at his back with as much haste as possible, he strode forward.
Drawn, it was true, by the mouthwatering sight of her derriere.
Her pale gown with its lace overskirt was a temptation pooled around her bent legs. Her arse was full and round beneath the fall of those skirts, raised as she moved about beneath his bed in search of something. Lord help him, but he wanted to cup her rump. To take it in both hands and squeeze. To lift her skirts to her waist, find the tempting flesh of her cunny with his fingers, part her, discover if she was as wet and hot as he suspected she would be.
Curse it.
His fantasy was getting the better of him. All he could think about now was raising her skirts and taking her from behind, there on the floor. Surely, she could not have planned such a display. He found it difficult indeed to believe that an innocent lady—even one from a family as notorious as the Winters—would have wedged herself beneath his bed in the hopes he would soon arrive and find himself unerringly tempted by the sweet curves of her bottom.
Which, of course, he was.
She had an arse he would love to spank. To caress.
New inspiration struck as he watched her wiggling about. Better yet, he could draw her to her feet, settle her palms upon his bed, kiss her throat right where that heart-shaped mark hid, and slide into her from behind while they stood there together.
But, no. Such thoughts were the work of the devil that sought to distract him from his course. And his course, as he reminded himself quite forcefully now whilst he stalked the rest of the way across his guest chamber toward her, was Tyre Abbey.
Not the beautiful, altogether wrong Miss Grace Winter. Temptation incarnate, though she may be. Amazingly, she had somehow failed to hear his entrance. He could only put it down to the size of the chamber and the softness of the carpet.
He could not stand here watching her rump, fantasizing about the different positions in which he could take her all night. Could he? His breeches were already far too snug.
“What the devil are you doing beneath my bed, Grace?” he demanded, his voice low.
She jerked, and then the unmistakable sound of her skull connecting with the wooden braces on the underside of the bed echoed in the chamber. Along with her muffled cry of pain.
“Christ,” he muttered, dropping to his knees at her side. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She shimmied out from beneath the bed. Her cheeks were flushed, her auburn curls having escaped her coiffure to frame her face. She sat back on her knees as she rubbed her head, pinning him with a scowl.
“You need not have given me such a fright, my lord,” she snapped.
The daring of this woman would never cease to confound him.
“You were beneath my bed,” he pointed out. “What was I to have done? Begun disrobing whilst you were poking about under there?”
Now that he thought upon it, the idea was not a bad one. His fingers settled upon the knot in his cravat and plucked.
Her eyes went wide. “No disrobing, if you please, my lord. I merely meant to say you could have announced your presence with greater aplomb.”
His cravat was undone, lying limply about his neck. Goading her was proving one of his favorite means of passing the time. “And why should I have to announce my presence at all in my own chamber, Grace?”
“Miss Winter,” she corrected primly.
“Grace,” he repeated, with delicious emphasis. “How else am I to refer to a female who has trespassed upon my chamber at such a late hour, hmm?”
She was still rubbing her head. “You know very well why I am here, Lord Aylesford. You need not play games.”
“Oh, I play no games,” he assured her, giving her a slow grin. “Does your head still smart, love? I can kiss it for you, to make it better, if you like.”
“No.” She was scowling at him again. “I would far prefer to suffer the headache, thank you.”
“You wound me to my soul,” he said.
But he was rather enjoying himself at her expense. Her reason for being in his chamber, and what she must have been looking for beneath his bed, hit him. The Tale of Love, that little bawdy book she was so intent upon regaining possession of.
“I did not suppose you had a soul,” she quipped then. “Black-hearted scoundrel that you are.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Whatever makes you think me a scoundrel? I am wounded all over again.”
Her eyes were on his throat, lingering there. “You are attempting to bribe me into becoming your feigned betrothed.”
He whipped off his cravat, discarding it somewhere over his shoulder. “I offered you an excellent bargain, Grace. Your cooperation in return for your bawdy book. An even exchange as it were.”
“Why do you need a feigned betrothed so badly?” she asked.
“Good of you to ask.” He shrugged off his coat, leaving him in only shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. “My grandmother, the dowager duchess, is requiring me to have a betrothed before she will allow me to take possession of Tyre Abbey.”
“Tyre Abbey,” she repeated.
He did not miss the way her gaze traveled over his shoulders.
Rand suppressed a grin and flicked open the buttons on his waistcoat. “An estate in Scotland. A wealthy one, but one that also has a great deal of meaning to me. I spent summers there as a lad.”
He removed his waistcoat, sending it the way of his coat and cravat. There was a fire in his blood, a heat that seared him wherever Grace’s eyes roamed.
And roam, they did. All over him.
Like a caress.
“Why are you disrobing, Lord Aylesford?” she asked.
“What else am I to do in my chamber?” he returned. “I am readying myself for slumber. You do not fancy I sleep in my clothes, do you?”
“But…” she sputtered.
“Grace Winter, bereft of speech?” he teased. “Let us mark this down in the annals of history.”
“Very entertaining, my lord.” Blushing furiously, she rose to her feet.
He followed suit, unfolding his legs to his full height. He towered over her. She was the perfect height for him. The air between them was heavy, tingling with a new awareness.
He found the short line of buttons on his lawn shirt, plucking them from their moorings. “Have you made your decision?”
“My decision?” she queried, her gaze upon the swath of chest he had revealed.
Lord, her eyes on him were making desire turn from a flame into a raging fire.
“Will you agree to be my feigned betrothed?” he pressed, reminding himself that he needed her yes more than he needed her body.
More than he needed her lips beneath his.
Although, that was fast becoming a lie.
He grasped handfuls of his shirt and hauled it over his head. The shirt joined the rest of his garments he had already flung to the carpet. His love of sport had honed his muscles over the years, and he was well aware of the effect he had upon ladies, bereft of his clothes.
She did not answer his question. Her avid stare was consuming him.
He stepped toward her, prepared to take her in his arms. Everything in him cried out with want. He had thought he would seduce her into agreeing. That he would toy with her. Make her flush. Instead, he was losing control.
“Grace,” he prompted, his voice thick with the desire burning inside h
im. “The choice is yours. Agree to be my feigned betrothed, or I will give the book to your brother. If you say yes, I will return the book to you at the conclusion of our betrothal, and no one will ever know your wicked little secret.”
No one except for Rand, that was.
And he did not think he would ever be able to expunge from his mind the image of Grace Winter reading a bawdy book. Poring over an engraving of a man with his head between the thighs of a lusty lady. Or a lady with her lips wrapped around a man’s cock. Or for that matter, the fantasy of Grace Winter’s pouty pink lips wrapped around his aching cock.
Her stare jerked to his, and even this shared connection took his breath. Made him ache. Made him long for more.
“You promise to give me the book at the conclusion of the ruse?” she asked.
“Our betrothal,” he corrected, noting the fashion in which she referred to his proposal.
“At the conclusion of this farce you have authored,” she corrected, giving her eyes a dramatic roll heavenward.
As if she were frustrated with him.
When she was the one who was making him desperate for her, merely by her presence in his chamber. Christ, the scent of her would linger after she left. Summer blossoms and Grace.
Bloody delicious.
“I promise to give you the book at the end of our betrothal,” he agreed, “or however you wish to refer to it. In return, you will agree to be my bride until I no longer have need of your assistance.”
“Until Tyre Abbey is yours,” she said, her gaze traveling once more. Dipping to his abdomen. Then lower. “How long do you think it will be? Days? Weeks?”
His cock was straining against the fall of his breeches.
“As long as it takes, Grace,” he rasped with great effort.
The capacity for thought was fast fleeing him.
“Perhaps we should put a time limit upon my assistance,” she suggested then.
If she didn’t leave the chamber soon, his ability to resist taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless would be utterly nonexistent. As it was, he was calling upon every bit of his restraint.
“Perhaps you should say yes and return to your chamber where you belong before I completely disrobe,” he countered, gritting his teeth. “Unless you wish to see my c—”
“No!” she squeaked. “I am going, my lord. I will agree to be your feigned betrothed in exchange for the return of my book.”
He watched her flee from his chamber as if Cerberus were at her heels.
And as the door clicked closed on her retreating form, a river of regret flooded him. He rather wished she had stayed.
Chapter Four
“He still has the book?” Pru asked the next day as they met in the library following breakfast.
Grace sighed. “Yes.”
But she was not certain which was worse: the fact that she had given in and agreed to Lord Aylesford’s scheme, or the fact that he had been pressing his cause by taking off his clothes.
She felt an ache deep within her even now, the next day, when he was nowhere in sight. Only a wall of books and her older sister about. He had been disrobing. And he had been beautiful.
One thing was certain: engravings on a page were no comparison to Viscount Aylesford in flesh and blood. He was all lean, powerful man. His abdomen had been accented by sinews and muscles, his chest broad and strong. The sight of him in nothing more than his breeches, which had clung lovingly to his strong thighs, had been enough to make her weak.
“And you have agreed to this plan of his, to pretend to be his betrothed, in exchange for his returning the book?” Pru persisted thoughtfully.
“I have,” she admitted, still aggrieved with herself for her cowardly display the night before.
Still irked quite mightily by her reaction to the diabolical man.
She had conceded. Forgotten all about her quest to locate the book and circumvent him. Instead, she had wilted like a flower in the summer heat. She had run from him. Run from herself, as well. Because she had been terribly close to touching him. To throwing herself in his arms.
To kissing those rakish lips.
Pru cast her a sidelong glance as they walked along the wall of books. “Do you suppose Dev will be fooled?”
Grace swallowed. This was the part of the plan she disliked the most—deceiving her brother. Because she loved Dev with all her heart. He was a wonderful brother, and he had devoted his life to caring for them all. He only wanted what was best for them.
What he deemed was best for them, in some instances.
But his heart was pure, his motives true.
He simply wanted happiness for them all. Lying to him would not be easy.
“I suppose we shall have to see how successful Lord Aylesford is at persuading him,” Grace said.
The viscount was smooth and charming. He was also the heir to a wealthy dukedom. Convincing Dev of the wisdom of a betrothal between himself and Grace would probably be easy. But their brother was also adamant that none of them would wed without agreeing to the match.
Which meant she would have to conduct an interview of her own with her brother. And hope he would not see through her deceptions.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fall in love and marry?” Pru asked as they reached the end of the wall of books and paused.
There was no point in pretending either of them was searching for reading material. They had only sought out the room so they could have a moment of privacy to discuss the question of the book.
She gave her sister a searching glance. “Have you wondered?”
Pru averted her gaze. “Of course not.”
“You have,” Grace accused. “I can see it on your face.”
“Oh, very well,” Pru admitted. “I confess, I have found myself contemplating such a notion. Only with the right man, of course.”
“Is there such a paragon in existence?” Grace could not help but ask.
For some reason, Viscount Aylesford rose in her mind. His handsome face. His dark hair, those blue eyes of his glinting in the candlelight as he had stripped off his shirt…
Foolish mind. The word paragon should never even occupy the same sentence as Lord Aylesford’s name. He was a wicked rakehell. An arrogant oaf. He knew precisely how his masculine beauty affected all females in his presence.
“I think with the right man, it could not be as awful as I once supposed,” Pru said then, her tone contemplative.
Grace raised a brow, considering her. “Has a gentleman in attendance changed your mind? Lord Ashley Rawdon, perhaps?”
The handsome Lord Ashley had been paying a marked attention to Pru. All the sisters had taken note of it.
Color rose to Pru’s cheeks. “Of course not. Lord Ashley is trying to match me with his brother, the duke.”
“Coventry?” This news surprised Grace even more. “Has he even spoken a word to anyone since he arrived at the house party?”
The new duke was painfully shy. Lord Ashley, however, was decidedly not.
“Scarcely a word to me,” Pru said, “but I must admit, I find myself wondering…”
“Lord Ashley is making you wonder,” Grace predicted.
Pru frowned. “Perhaps Lord Aylesford is making you wonder.”
“Do not be silly,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “I am only agreeing to this madcap plan so The Tale of Love is safely in our possession once more, without Dev ever being the wiser.”
“If you insist, sister dearest,” Pru said, sounding unconvinced.
“I do.” She kept her voice firm. As firm as her intention to end the betrothal the moment Aylesford received Tyre Abbey. “There is nothing I like about Lord Aylesford at all.”
Except for his handsome face.
Those sensual lips.
The way he made her feel.
And she could not forget his bare chest.
But she banished all those thoughts, for she could not afford to entertain them. The sooner her be
trothal was announced, the sooner she could be done with this silly scheme and with Viscount Aylesford both.
If the notion sent a tiny pang of remorse through her, she chose to ignore it.
Facing Mr. Devereaux Winter and asking to marry the man’s sister was rather a troublesome affair, Rand discovered. Perhaps it was because he had been seeking out Mr. Winter’s sister without the benefit of a chaperone. Mayhap it was because he had spent the previous evening imagining all manner of wickedness concerning her after she had left his bedchamber.
Or, it was because he had no intention of actually marrying Miss Grace Winter.
Either way, he was having a difficult time refraining from shifting in his seat as he met Mr. Winter’s gaze.
“You requested an audience with me, Lord Aylesford,” Mr. Winter said, his countenance unreadable.
Well, perhaps not entirely unreadable. Grim might be one word Rand would choose to describe the fellow. Murderous was another. Though Winter was a massive beast of a man, Rand was strong. He had well-hewn muscles and practiced boxing regularly at the famed Grey’s Boxing Salon in London. He could defend himself fairly enough in a match.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for taking the time out of your hosting duties to meet with me, Mr. Winter.”
“Excusing myself from a game of Bullet Pudding is no hardship,” Mr. Winter said, unsmiling.
Christ. Rand had chosen his timing well, for he could not abide by most parlor games in general, but Bullet Pudding in particular. Anything that involved searching for a bullet in a pile of flour using only his face was not his idea of fun.
Still, to say as much would be unpardonably rude to his host and a slur upon his hostess, Lady Emilia Winter.
“Lady Emilia’s entertainments have proven remarkably diverting,” he offered politely. “I am sorry to be missing Bullet Pudding.”
Mr. Winter tapped his fingers on the polished surface of the massive desk in the Abingdon House study. “Spare me the ceremony, my lord. Get to the heart of the matter, if you please, but I must warn you that if you claim to want to wed any of my sisters, I will find myself hard-pressed to believe you.”
Willful in Winter Page 4
